


when we were most ourselves

by xxrisque



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2287262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxrisque/pseuds/xxrisque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He loathes weddings. Most of the time he can sit through them until the bar opens and he can drown himself in cheap, shit beer, but not today.</p><p>Of course Combeferre and Courfeyrac would choose to have a summer wedding in a tiny village hall in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, Ireland, during the hottest July in at least twenty years.</p><p>Brilliant.</p><p>{ based on the prompt <i>two miserable people meeting at a wedding au</i> }</p>
            </blockquote>





	when we were most ourselves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackWingBecci](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackWingBecci/gifts).



> now with [art by the lovely Annie unhooking-the-stars](http://unhooking-the-stars.tumblr.com/post/97913605602/feuilly-bahorel-22)!

Bahorel is truly, utterly and completely fed up, and he’s been in this hall for less than twenty minutes. 

His suit is stuffy and too hot, the waistcoat just slightly tight enough that it’s something of a challenge to breathe when sitting down, and he’s convinced that the air conditioning isn’t working just to spite him.

He _loathes_ weddings. Most of the time he can sit through them until the bar opens and he can drown himself in cheap, shit beer, but not today.

Because of _course_ Combeferre and Courfeyrac would choose to have a summer wedding in a tiny village hall in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, Ireland, during the hottest July in at least twenty years.

He’s slumped in his seat on Courfeyrac’s side of the hall, Combeferre having commandeered most of their friends for his section of the pews. Cosette is sitting next to him in a beautiful pastel gown that compliments her skin gorgeously, trying to calm an exceedingly nervous Marius before he performs his best man duties. Enjolras, for eir part, is standing next to the man looking thoroughly unimpressed and exasperated.

The service takes another hour and a half after that, and it’s …nice, Bahorel supposes. Pedestrian, pleasant almost. Courfeyrac’s mothers cry loudly behind him, and Cosette sniffles herself as she turns around to pass them both tissues.

After it’s done and Courfeyrac and Combeferre have been hauled off to take photographs with their best people and their parents, Bahorel quickly seeks out the free champagne, takes two glasses and downs them both.

He makes a half-arsed attempt at mingling, finding himself bored by a conversation about work with one of Combeferre’s numerous siblings and another about the economy with a second cousin of Courfeyrac’s.

By the time they move to the venue for the wedding breakfast, Bahorel is in a slightly worse mood than before and is only slightly drunk to show for it. It’s not gone well, as far as he’s concerned. He takes his assigned seat, sharing a table with Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, Jehan, Cosette and another person he doesn’t recognise.

Cosette is talking to them already, so Bahorel occupies himself by opening the wine on the table and sharing it out.

He doesn’t get to speak to the person he’s sitting next to until after the speeches –Marius’s had been stuttered and stilted but heartfelt nonetheless, and Enjolras had carried eir’s out with the same planned precision as always, with Grantaire watching proudly from eir side.

“So, how do you know the happy couple?” Bahorel asks, unable to hide the boredom in his voice as he pokes idly at the plate of wilted vegetables masquerading as a starter that has been presented to him.

“I’m a childhood friend of Combeferre’s,” the other man explains in the thickest Irish accent Bahorel’s heard since he met Combeferre seven years ago, “name’s Feuilly.”

“Bahorel,” he introduces himself, shaking Feuilly’s hand. “I went to law school with Courfeyrac for a bit, then I ended up joining their weird little revolutionary gang.”

“Oh Jesus, the Amis? That’s how they met, y’know,” Feuilly says with an uninterested roll of his eyes. “All I got for six bloody months was ‘ _Feuilly there’s this boy, Feuilly he’s so lovely, Feuilly I’m in love with him, Feuilly his political leanings are astounding’_. Which, wonderful, I’m glad they’re happy but dear god, shut up.”

“You haven’t had to _see_ them together, though,” Bahorel counters with a barking laugh. “It’s disgusting. I mean, I’m happy that they’re happy but if they could get a room then it’d be a favour to us all.”

Feuilly laughs brashly beside him, making a feeble attempt to stifle it into his glass of wine.

Throughout the rest of the meal, they talk companionably about everything and nothing –Bahorel finds that Feuilly was raised in an orphanage after his parents died in an accident, and that he met Combeferre in school when the younger man had joined the orchestra Feuilly played in. Bahorel in turn finds himself revealing secrets he’d never even thought to tell, about his family and his background and his disillusionment with his career.

When they’re ushered out of the room so the staff can prepare for the evening celebrations, Bahorel makes an immediate beeline for the open bar.

“Can I get you a drink?” He asks Feuilly, who’s stayed tight by his side.

“What, from the free bar? You sure know how to woo a man,” Feuilly smirks, leaning back on the bar itself. “But oh, what the hell. I’ll take a Black Russian, if there’s one going.”

“A man after my own heart,” Bahorel grins wolfishly, turning to the barman and ordering their drinks. He passes one off to Feuilly and raises his glass.

“To the happy couple, without whom I’d be in bed sleeping off an excellent cage match and an even better night out,” Bahorel says, and Feuilly leans up to clink their glasses together.

“And without whom I’d have been at work today, or better yet, actually doing something vaguely productive.” Feuilly laughs, and they both knock back their drinks with steady mouthfuls.

They wander around together then, talking to various family members and mutual friends, and once even managing to catch Combeferre for a quick word before his husband had dragged him off by the hand.

“Well, he seems happy,” Feuilly whistles. “Can’t imagine why. Isn’t marriage just ‘I love you so much, let’s get the law involved’?”

“Basically,” Bahorel replies, lips quirking into a smile as he waves at a few of the evening guests that have started appearing. “It’s exactly why I never planned on getting married myself.”

“Fair,” Feuilly shrugs. “It’s not exactly high on my list of priorities either, though mine are a little skewed."

Bahorel laughs, and Jehan and Cosette appear then to drag them into a scintillating conversation about the flower arrangements.

They’re let back in to the venue not too long later, for the cutting of the cake and first dances. The cake itself is a fairly understated affair, predictably white with pastel blue and green stripes and beading.

“It’s very them,” Feuilly whispers under his breath as he watches the two men giggle and blush and cut the cake together. “All classic and refined.”

“It wasn’t until Combeferre got his hands on it, trust me,” Bahorel rolls his eyes. “Courfeyrac wanted rainbows and balloons.”

“Of course he did,” Feuilly huffs a laugh, leaning back and draping an arm over the back of Bahorel’s chair. “Why am I not surprised?”

Their chosen song starts playing in the background, and over the course of the next minute or so, other couples move and join them in their gentle swaying until Bahorel and Feuilly remain the only two left.

“Oh, what the hell,” Bahorel chuckles, getting to his feet and offering Feuilly his hand. “Want to dance?"

Feuilly stares at him and raises one perfect eyebrow, glancing briefly around the room at everyone else.

“Oh, sure, why not,” Feuilly lets Bahorel take his hand and drag him onto the dance floor. “Everyone else seems to be in on it.”

Bahorel smiles at him, hands finding the other man’s waist and settling there, swaying them both softly in time to the gentle lull of the music.

Suddenly, he’s very glad he came.

**Author's Note:**

> title from _love listen_ by ann gray.
> 
> i have a [tumblr](http://badlydressedbahorel.tumblr.com)!


End file.
